


Questions

by MyOwnSuperintendent



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: (as in a description of conception aimed at a child), Cat X Ned Week, F/M, extremely mild sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-16 02:30:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2252520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyOwnSuperintendent/pseuds/MyOwnSuperintendent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arya's questions about where babes come from lead Catelyn to have some questions of her own--questions about Jon Snow.</p>
<p>Written for Day 4 of Cat x Ned Week on tumblr, which called for fics set between Greyjoy's Rebellion and the start of A Game of Thrones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Questions

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire or anything related to it. Hope you enjoy!

As much as Ned liked to tease her about being always cold, even Catelyn admitted that the North had its beautiful days. Today was such a one. It was warm and sunny but not too bright, and she decided that it would be a good day to take Rickon outdoors. She found a warm spot near the keep and sat with him there for a while, cradling him in her arms, murmuring to him softly about nothing in particular, and smiling at his answering coos. She was just beginning to think that it might be time to go back inside—Rickon would be hungry soon—when she spied Arya making her way towards them. Oddly for her, Arya was moving at an ordinary pace; Catelyn’s younger daughter almost never walked when she could run. Catelyn decided to take advantage of this unusual tranquility. “Arya,” she called. “Come sit with me for a few moments.” Arya obeyed, trotting across the yard to take a seat beside her. Catelyn noticed, without surprise, that her dress was dirty and her braid undone. “What have you been doing?”

“Racing Bran,” said Arya. “I won.”

Catelyn sighed. “You make such a mess of yourself, Arya.”

“But I can wash,” Arya protested.

She could have prolonged the discussion, but Catelyn didn’t feel inclined to on such a beautiful day. “Would you like to hold your brother?” she asked instead. Arya seemed particularly intrigued by the novelty of the new babe. She was too little to remember Bran’s birth, although Catelyn herself remembered Arya’s sulks for the first few weeks before she’d accepted her younger brother as a companion.

Arya nodded eagerly, holding out her arms. Catelyn gently placed Rickon there. “You remember what I told you,” she said. “Keep one hand under his head.” Arya nodded again, already making faces at her little brother. She was a good sister, Catelyn thought, watching them. She was almost as pleased when Rickon gave Arya a smile as she had been when he had given her his first one, just a few days earlier. “You see, he likes you,” she said. “What do you think of him?”

Arya looked thoughtful. “I’m not certain yet,” she said. “He’s still terribly small.”

Catelyn smiled. “Well, he’s only a month old,” she said. “You were even smaller at his age.”

The face Arya turned on her suggested that she had offered her daughter some grave insult. “I was _not_!” she said.

“Oh, yes, you were,” said Catelyn, leaning down to kiss her daughter’s forehead. Seeing that this had not mollified Arya in the slightest, she quickly added, “Sansa was just as small as you were. And Robb was smaller still.”

Arya looked astonished. “Really?”

“Do you think I would make up stories?”

“No, I suppose not,” said Arya, “only it seems a bit silly. I think babes should start bigger. Then it wouldn’t take so long to grow.”

Catelyn laughed, thinking of her five labors, of the aches that lingered even now from Rickon’s birth. “I don’t know that most mothers would agree with you, Arya.”

“Why not?” Arya asked.

“Because the babe has to grow in the mother’s belly,” Catelyn said. “Remember how I told you that Rickon was growing there before he was born?”

“Oh, that’s right,” said Arya. “Then did we all grow in your belly, Mother? Not just Rickon?”

“All of you did, of course,” Catelyn said. “That’s how all babes grow.”

“I don’t remember it,” said Arya.

“Most people don’t,” Catelyn told her solemnly.

Arya held Rickon out to Catelyn. “He’s heavy. You can hold him again.” Catelyn gathered her youngest son back into her arms, and Arya leaned against her, quiet for a few moments. “Mother?”

“Yes, Arya?”

“Mother, how do the babes start growing?”

Catelyn was silent for a moment, thinking about how best to proceed. Arya was young, yes, but she would have to know the truth sometime. Making up some story now would only complicate things later. She would keep it as simple as she could, she decided, and try her best to curtail Arya’s usual habit of asking millions of questions. “Well, Arya, men’s and women’s bodies are made differently.”

Arya nodded. “Yes, of course. Like me and Bran.” Arya had been very shocked the first time she’d seen Catelyn giving Bran a bath; that was another occasion, Catelyn recalled, on which she’d had to answer quite a lot of questions.

“Yes,” said Catelyn. “And a mother’s and father’s bodies work together to make a new babe.”

“How?” Arya demanded.

“Well,” Catelyn said, keeping her voice as ordinary as she could, “the father puts his member inside the mother’s body, in between her legs, and that’s how the babe starts to grow.”

The explanation was fairly blunt, perhaps, and lacked many of the details, but Arya seemed to accept it. “Oh,” she said. “All right. Is that how it happened with us?”

Catelyn nodded, stroking her daughter’s tangled hair. “Yes, that’s how your father and I made you and Bran and Rickon and Sansa and Robb.”

“What about Jon?” Arya asked.

It took everything Catelyn had to stop herself from lashing out—to remind herself that Arya was only six, that Arya hadn’t meant to ask a question that would hurt her, that Arya was old enough to understand that Jon Snow was a bastard but not old enough to understand what that really meant. Rickon grabbed her finger then, and she looked down at him, trying to make herself smile. _We have five wonderful children,_ she told herself, _and Ned loves_ me _now, I know he does_. She gathered herself together with an effort and said, “Jon grew in his mother’s belly just as you all grew in mine. Now go wash like you said you would. It’s almost time for supper.” She dropped another quick kiss on Arya’s forehead, just to make sure that Arya knew that she wasn’t angry with her. Because this wasn’t Arya’s fault.

It wasn’t Arya’s fault, no, but Arya had put the thoughts into her mind, thoughts that, after all these years, she could usually keep down. She still wasn’t happy with the bastard’s presence, of course, but she usually didn’t have these thoughts of Ned lying with some other woman, perhaps telling her that he loved her, perhaps giving her that tender look that Catelyn liked to believe that only she ever saw. And now she couldn’t help wondering who the woman had been, what she had been like. _Was she prettier than I? More enticing? Did she understand Ned as I do? Does he think about her still?_ She was distracted all through the evening, she knew, as they all sat at supper, as she gave Rickon his last feeding before putting him to bed, as she kissed the older children goodnight in their turn, as she brushed her hair for sleep.

She was very aware of Ned’s presence behind her as she brushed out the last tangles. He still came to her bed every night, even though it was too soon after Rickon’s birth for them to lie together. Ordinarily, this was perfectly fine with Catelyn; she liked having him hold her as she fell asleep, and, in truth, with such a small babe she was usually too tired for anything more, even if it had been an option. Tonight, though, she found herself wishing desperately that they could make love, that she could let his touch reassure her that he loved her, that she could remind him that she was just as desirable as some ghost from the past. She shook her head and put down the brush.

When she joined Ned in the bed, he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong, Cat?”

He knew her too well, but talking to him about it would be no help at all. She’d asked him before about Jon Snow’s mother, and he’d utterly refused to talk about the woman. _Because she must have been special to him_ , she thought miserably. “It’s nothing,” she said. “I’m just tired.”

Ned looked concerned. “Are you feeling well?” he asked her. “If you still need to rest more, you know that it’s perfectly all right. The servants are more than capable. What’s most important is that you get your strength back, love.”

He was so good to her, and she _knew_ that he meant every word of it—she knew that he did love her—yet she still couldn’t stop having these thoughts. “It’s not that, Ned. I feel perfectly fine.”

“Then what is it?” Ned asked. “Is it something with the children?”

He wanted to know what was troubling her, and she wouldn’t lie to him. “A bit, I suppose. Oh, nothing’s wrong with them,” she hastened to reassure him. “I was just…I was just thinking about something that Arya asked me earlier.”

“Oh dear,” said Ned, smiling and drawing her into his arms. “What’s she got into her head now?”

“She was asking me about how babes are made.”

“Oh my,” Ned said, looking rather startled. “They do grow up fast.”

“So I told her, and she asked if that was how it happened with her and the others, and I told her that it was. And then she…she asked if that was how it happened with Jon.” Catelyn knew that she didn’t sound any happier than she felt.

“Oh,” Ned said. “Oh, Cat.” Perhaps he held her a bit more tightly then, but he was silent, and Catelyn found herself feeling almost angry. She was used to Ned’s silences by now, had come to accept them as part of who he was, but she would never get used to the punishing silence around this one subject. If he wouldn’t talk, she would.

“Well, I had to tell her something, so I told her that Jon grew in his mother’s belly as well. She’ll understand more as she gets older, of course, and that’s all I could tell her anyway.” _Because that’s all I know myself_. She only thought the words and didn’t speak them aloud, but Ned seemed to catch them anyway.

“I’m sorry, Cat,” he said, but he looked less sorry than stern. “I can’t.”

“I know you won’t,” she said. And she thought again about whether he’d loved some other woman deeply, whether that could explain his determined silence, the silence that she didn’t understand, really, and probably never would. She moved to the other side of the bed, trying to hide her face. _Perhaps he loved her more than he loves me, and that is why he will not tell me_. She sternly told herself that such a thought was unworthy and untrue, but that didn’t make her think it any less.

She felt Ned’s hand brush her hair aside from her cheek. “Cat.” He kissed her lightly. “I am sorry.”

“I know,” she said. “But that doesn’t…”

“I know,” he said. His hand stroked her hair gently, and she was grateful that he at least did not act as though she had no right to be upset. “There is something I will tell you,” he said, after a few minutes of silence.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You…you are the only woman I would wish to be my wife.” He was still stroking her hair. “You are so beautiful, Cat, and as good a wife as I could ever wish. And our children…I would not trade our life for any other.” He kissed her cheek again. “Can you believe me?”

Catelyn moved to face him then. “Of course I can.” She kissed him then, lingeringly this time, and yes, she did believe him. No matter what he had felt for someone else, she could never doubt that he did love her. And he had said that he would not trade their life for any other, and that meant even a life with this other woman, whomever she might be. And so Catelyn would push aside thoughts of Jon Snow’s mother, as she usually did, and remember what she and Ned had.

Ned pulled her close to him then, looking at her with the tender look and whispering, “Come here, my love. Let me hold you.” And Catelyn settled into his arms and pressed her cheek against his, telling herself to be (as she really was most of the time) content.


End file.
